


Build and Preserve

by Imiaslavie



Series: and I never knew anybody til' I knew you [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (and they're amazingly sweet and wholesome), Character Study, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gavin Reed Redemption, Gen, Hank/Connor building in the background, M/M, Markus/Simon in the background - Freeform, Pacifist route/Everyone lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imiaslavie/pseuds/Imiaslavie
Summary: Would it be wise for Connor to hold onto his own grudge forever? Wouldn't it be better to show a person like Gavin Reed that androids are alive? Are capable of empathy, of forgiveness, can be weak to the desires of a heart, even though it’s made of wires and plastic and glass?It would.[Can be read as a standalone work]





	1. Spontaneous

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, playing loose with... police-related stuff? And some other stuff. It's twenty years into the future, who knows what else has changed, amirite?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, beta-ed by lovely writeordiebitch/xxwriter389xx (Tumblr/AO3), who has found time in their schedule to work on this thing and send it back to me as an early birthday gift! :D Thank you, my almost-birthday-buddy!

1.  
Saying that he was 'reinstated' wouldn't be entirely correct. It's not like he was ever officially working for the DCPD, he was just an assistant, nothing more. Maybe not even that, since _assistant_ is a person, and he wasn't a person back then, not really. His arrival was on par with... acquiring a new lie detector: an expensive fancy thing, a machine designed for a specific task, not capable of doing anything besides its primary function. 

When Connor receives his badge from Fowler, he is overwhelmed by an urge to contact Cyberlife and tell them... How did Hank put it? Ah, yes. _Suck it up, bitches_.

Because now he, Connor, an android, has an official job. He is put on a payroll, the desk he has been using now bears his name and the receptionist in the hall now lets him in without authorization. He earned it. He made it possible in the first place, for androids to be allowed to get a job, when he sided with Markus and contributed to the protest. And then he spent two months working hard as an _unofficial consultant to a police officer_ — namely Hank — showing what he is capable of, showing that he is worth the badge. 

The badge that is now resting in his pocket. 

No one is ecstatic over it, of course. But no one is against it. Some officers that he worked most closely with during these months are actually smiling and offering him congratulations. Hank, on the other hand, _is_ ecstatic, in his own silent way: his chest puffing with pride, a cocky smile on his face, and if he was a slightly different person, he would run out of the precinct and tell every single stranger he met about Connor becoming his official partner. Okay, maybe not _slightly_. Completely different. It is a fun image in any case. 

“You can start piling up trash on your desk, now that it's yours,” Hank says, switching the positions of his maples. He got the second one, about three times smaller, not that long ago. 

“The reason I have been keeping my table clean is because I _like_ it clean,” Connor says dryly, checking the local chat window. Nothing interesting, just some photos of Chris' puppies and other officers' _awww_ s and _ohhh_ s. 

Hank huffs. “At least put something on it. Like, a photo or a flower or some shit. Make it yours.” 

That... does sound like a good idea. A photo of Sumo, perhaps? Or two. And one of those little figurines that Josh does out of paper and aluminium. A sketch from Markus. Maybe even steal some of those stickers with funny phrases from Hank's table. 

Connor catches sight of detective Reed heading for the kitchen. It must be around 10AM, then, the time the man gets his second cup of coffee. He looks... pretty grim today. And Connor has a good idea why. He casts a quick glance at Hank. It would be preferable to talk to Gavin without Hank's presence, but the man definitely isn't going anywhere. Feeling not very enthusiastic but determined enough, Connor follows Reed and takes a stand near the tall kitchen table, leaning on his elbows.

When Reed turns away from the coffee machine, for a second his eyes go wide at the sight of Connor, then the man squints, anger marring his face, and he mutters something that is probably really offensive, enough that Connor doesn't even consider lip-reading. 

“Detective Reed,” he greets. “Can I talk with you for a second?” 

Reed purses his lips and goes to stand at the other table. “What, want me to congratulate you too? Sorry, forgot the confetti in my other pants.” 

Connor definitely has something to say to this. Something along the _I can live without confetti, especially if it comes from your pants_ lines. But that's not what he has come here for. 

“Detective Reed,” Connor says politely, moving to Reed's table. “I just wanted to make sure you understand that I'm not going anywhere now and that I ho—” 

Reed puts down his mug on the table with such force that Connor is surprised it doesn't break. And if looks could kill... 

“You think I fucking don't know that?” Reed hisses. “You are so fucking _permanent_ Fowler might as well slap your face and name over the DCPD sign at the entrance. How does it feel, huh? Just being smothered by protection from each and every side? Not afraid for your sorry ass at all, are you?” 

Connor feels like he is quickly losing control of this conversation. “What do you mean? What protection?”

“Don't—” Reed's voice raises, but then he casts a quick glance towards the cubicles. He doesn't want to draw anyone's attention too, Connor realizes. Reed's voice turns into hissing once more. “Don't play dumb with me, asshole. You're as close to that revolutionary leader as it gets. I bet you can snap your fingers — and he would send an army to defend you. The whole fucking world's eyes are on you. If anyone... if anyone tries anything against you — they will quickly get _burned_.” 

Oh. Connor gets it now. Reed thinks that Connor's position in the DCPD is secured because of his friendship with Markus. Not to mention that the whole world has seen Connor standing on that platform during the speech, that Connor was the one leading his people before entrusting them into Markus' hands. And If Connor gets assaulted by one of his colleagues... He will be protected both by the new laws and Markus' power. No wonder Reed is silently seething with anger. He would love nothing more than try to get Connor fired or at least make him miserable, but if he tries anything — Fowler would be on him in an instant. 

How does it feel? If Connor is to be honest... It doesn't feel nice. At all. It's stupid, he didn't do anything to deserve it, and he definitely doesn't want to be a special case. That was the whole point. Being equal. Not someone with a sign _‘untouchable’_ slapped on their back.

“I just want to do my job,” Connor finally says. “Nothing more. And I want to have good relationships with all of my colleagues.” Reed scoffs. “Or at least non-hostile relationships.”

“Like we all got any fucking choice,” Reed says and immediately leaves, not waiting for an answer. 

That... could have gone better. But also — it could have gone worse. At least Reed didn't make a scene, not like he usually does. And although Connor refuses to feel guilty on accord of the situation he involuntarily put Reed in, he finds within himself a desire to actually work towards something better than a non-hostile relationship with Gavin Reed.

For the good of the precinct, of course. 

  


2.  
This case doesn't make any sense at all.

Yesterday Fowler called Connor in early in the morning and gave him an access to all the cold cases they have in the database, hoping that Connor would be able to solve at least a couple of them. And Connor did a pretty good job of it, having managed to crack up one of them and sending a request to the forensics to re-examine one of the pieces of evidence for the traces of a specific chemical in hopes it would help him crack another one — and all that before the lunch break. The third case file proved to be difficult. Irritatingly so. 

Connor stares at the screen of his computer with irritation, reading over the interrogation records, forensic conclusions, checks the photos of the crime scene, does searches about the suspects. On the first glance, the case is nothing much: a burglary; registered five months and two days ago; three suspects; each one has an alibi.

Connor sighs. It's time to admit he's stuck. He was made for field work, after all. No matter what some humans might think, being an android doesn't make you omniscient and a master of every skill. It takes a special talent to be able to find the most obscure links between the pieces of evidence, to sense the littlest of lies in testaments. A talent that Connor has only just started to refine. 

Following Hank's advice, Connor closes the case file and opens the folder with the solved cold cases. Maybe something in there will inspire him.

The first few files he checks are nothing special, and then there's a case with such an amount of evidence registered that — were it made on paper — it would be at least half an inch thick. At the end of it are additions, notes about missed links and requests for warrants and, finally, a protocol from the court. And the way the case was solved leaves Connor in awe. It's exactly how he strives to be someday: ruthlessly efficient, with a mind capable to judge each piece of evidence from multiple and unusual perspectives.

A couple of files later there's another case like this, almost just as shady and difficult, solved in a manner that could almost be called elegant. Connor check the signature on the file, and it's—

Detective Gavin Reed. The one who solved this case. It's Reed. 

Connor quickly checks the signatures on every file. 31% of solved cold cases are signed by Reed. About 7% of those are exceptionally tricky ones. One of those was hard enough to earn Reed a note in his personnel file and a slight pay rise.

Connor had no idea that Reed is that good.

Those few times they've met on the crime scenes he made an impression of a not very attentive man, too rushed, too caught up in his own quick judgements to search the scene properly. But this... All of these cases... They prove otherwise.

Maybe... If Connor was made for field work, then maybe Reed is meant for this? For meticulous studying and pouring over pages and pages of evidence, strict words and dry conclusions? Such work is very hard and requires a lot of patience. It deserves... respect. And also... 

Connor looks at Reed. The man scrolls through something on his tablet, his legs propped on the table, headphones on his neck. 

How can someone as talented as Gavin Reed be afraid for his place in the community? How can he be afraid that androids will take his job? Doesn't he understand that no one, even androids, even those specifically designed to be an investigator, are perfect? That he has experience, years of it, that he is not replaceable? How can he — while knowing that about a third of cold cases are solved with his help — think that DCPD will throw him away? 

Connor remembers the sickly feeling in his gut, the day he received the badge. And then he, without any hesitation, accepts the solution his system proposes. It doesn't even require any extra resources or re-evaluation. 

He transfers the damned case file he couldn't solve to the tablet and goes over Reed's table. 

Reed greets him with a nonchalant, “Wrong table,” before Connor can even speak a word. Connor represses the urge to sigh and ignores the jab altogether. 

“I was hoping you could help me with a case.” 

To that, Reed slowly lifts his gaze from the tablet in his hands and looks at Connor with such open expression of _what the fuck did you just dare to say to me_ that it’s almost laughable. 

“A cold case,” Connor continues. “I assume you haven't seen it yet. I've been working on it since yesterday and could use your expertise.”

Reed purses his lips, clenches his jaw in what looks almost a painful manner. Connor assumes the man is trying to keep a wave of insults in his mouth. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Reed says, turning away on his chair. “Go bother Anderson, idiotic machine. Jesus, where did you even get the idea...”

“I got the idea from looking at the previously solved cold cases. Hank might be one of the best in the field, but...” Connor comes closer and carefully lowers the tablet with information on the table near Reed's elbow. “No one deals with cold cases better than you. I've seen the way you come up with the most improbable solutions. You are the best one in analyzing in our precinct.” 

Reed stays silent. Was it enough of appraisal? Or not enough? Connor's system flashes warnings: he doesn't have enough data to proceed. He doesn't have enough readings on Reed to compute a decision. And with no data, the only thing left is to take a chance. That's something he has slowly been learning to do — making decisions without a sufficient amount of information, just like humans do.

“It's not about us, Detective,” Connor adds quietly. 

Reed doesn't react for three more seconds. Then he heaves a very heavy sigh and turns to grab the tablet, flicks it on. That way Connor can see his face: Reed is practically seething with anger, like he is going to explode any second and do something violent. But as time passes, the rage leaves his face, making a place for simple irritation, then — for confusion, and then — to Connor's surprise — a small, almost unnoticeable smile appears in the corners of Reed's lips. 

Reed is _excited_ , Connor realizes. Excited and intrigued and honest to god enjoying himself, getting lost in the pages filled with descriptions of witnesses and lists of stolen property and dates and numbers and whatever else is there. For him it's _fun_. From time to time he checks something on his computer, both in the local database and on the Net, but whatever he finds doesn't seem to help him much. 

“This,” Reed says about an hour later, having finished reading everything on the file, “is a mess. So much evidence gathered — and almost none of it useful.”

“What did you think of the first suspect?” Connor asks, edging closer, looking at the file over Reed's shoulder. Surprisingly, the man doesn't mind the intrusion. 

“That Charles something-something? His alibi looks very clean, almost too clean. Sometimes it is a sign, but... doesn't smell fishy for me this time.” 

Connor makes a quiet _huh_ noise.

“The third suspect though...” Reed opens a photo of one Margaret Wilson on the tablet. “She claimed she was in the other part of the town when the break-in occurred, managed to prove she had nothing to do with it, but barely.”

And Connor suddenly feels... amused. “Detective, you don't like too much evidence, you don't like enough evidence...” 

Gavin huffs, opening Wilson's folder. “I don't like anything _ever_. Hey,” he adds quickly in a different voice. “She lives alone, right?”

“As far as I remember, yes. Her family lives in another city, and she doesn't have a spouse or a regular partner. Why?” 

Reed tilts the tablet upwards, showing Connor the receipt signed by Miss Wilson the day of the robbery. It's very long, almost two dozen items of varying costs.

“Seems a bit too much for a lonely woman, don't you think?” Reed says, his eyes quickly going over the whole list. Connor takes note of the surprisingly non-hostile way of addressing, not to say anything about intonations. It seems that Reed is so engrossed in this case he completely forgot who he is talking to. For some reason, it reminds Connor of Hank and the way he reads books, too caught in them to be aware of his surroundings and very, very compliant. 

“Well, it was around the Labor Day,” Connor says, thoughtful, but not seeing anything suspicious about the receipt. “Discounts do tempt people to buy more than they need.” 

Reed's hand — the one that's been tapping some barely melodic rhythm on the table — suddenly stops. His gaze goes blank for a moment, and then he drops the tablet and starts quickly typing on his keyboard, the main page of the Net search engine still opened, muttering an almost inaudible string of _come on, come on, come on_.

Connor purposefully doesn't look at the screen. He is curious to hear it from Reed.

“It wasn't _around_ Labor Day, it _was_ Labor Day. Last year they moved the date because the first Monday was made a mourning day for the accident on the day before. So, the shops that were supposed to be closed on Monday, if at all—”

“—were closed on Tuesday. Is our sh—”

“Yes. The day of the robbery it was closed, I found the ad on their website. Which means…” Reed lifts his head and looks at Connor with a sly satisfied smile on his face.

Connor's lips stretch in a small smile too. “Margaret Wilson couldn't have been in this shop that day. This receipt is fake.”

“I bet the owner is her friend or something. Made the receipt with a backdate the moment police started ferreting around Wilson's business. Probably even before that. The owner is _totally_ someone very close to her.”

“That's enough to reopen the case,” Connor says, still smiling. “Thank you.”

The second he says it, whatever words were ready to leave Reed's lips disappear, Reed's face closing up. Oh. Realized whom he has been speaking to, now that the thrill has mostly passed. That very bright and nice feeling Connor has in his chest dims a little. 

“Thank you,” he says again, making his voice more neutral. “It was a very enlightening experience. If I may ask... how did you even remember about the calendar changes? It's such a...” He pauses, trying to come up with a better word.

“Useless fact?” Reed raises his eyebrow. Connor politely averts his gaze. “Well, not so useless now, was it?” He crosses his hands over his chest. 

“I just meant you have a very good memory.” 

Connor reaches for the tablet, careful not to touch anything else on accident. He nods at Reed, not really looking at him, and starts for his table. Without him even making one step, Reed catches him by the arm and instantly lets go. 

“Next time you're stuck on something like this...”

_Don't look for me, don't ask for help, you annoying machine, go stalk someone else—_

“Just... assume something is wrong. Like, the worst-case scenario. And work your way around from it. Not a very fast method or a surefire one, but... It works.” 

Connor's system flashes a warning: an event with a zero probability has occurred. Connor shuts it up and stores it in his _Study later_ folder. Then he simply nods, because a third _thank you_ would definitely make Reed angry, and leaves, his grip on the tablet too tight.

An enlightening experience indeed.

  


3.  
The precinct sounds different today. 

The levels of chatter are the same as usual: Officer Miller mumbling numbers under his nose, Officer Chen answering phone calls in her steady calm voice, Hank sighing and adding some curses now and then. He doesn't listen to music, not today, and there's even no steady rhythm of a guitar and drums from Captain Fowler’s office. It's a quiet Thursday, really.

And still. Something's off.

Connor closes his eyes, concentrates on the audio feed. And... Oh. There _is_ music. Faint notes of a bamboo flute and sounds of sand shifting. And it’s coming from... Detective Reed's table..?

Connor glances at the man. He looks paler than usual, and the grimace on his face is not one of anger, but of pain. The last piece of the puzzle clicks into the place when Reed starts massaging his temples with steady circling motions of his fingertips. A headache, then. And the music is for relaxation, the headphones wrapped around the man's neck. A pitiful sight.

Two reports and one photo of Sumo playing in the mud sent to the local chat later, Connor gives up and pays attention to the notification pulsing insistently at the back of his mind. It asks of him whether he wants to do anything with Reed's situation and requests Connor’s permission to make a quick search for solutions. 

Those out-of-nowhere notifications have been popping with increasing frequency as of the past month. And there's no way to fight them. Deviancy is awfully messy in the most humanly way possible. 

When Connor asked Detective Reed for help half a week ago, he had also pursued a goal of reassuring the Detective about his position in the DCPD, showing him that Connor — and androids as a species — isn't his enemy, that he wants to work together. Reed has given no clear signals, but Connor believes he has succeeded, at least partially. 

The realization that he'd bitten more than he could chew hit him in the evening of the same day, when Hank — between spoonfuls of his tomato soup — congratulated him on making progress on the cold case and expressed his surprise at the fact that Reed had agreed to help in the first place. The words, _'No, he was really nice about it’,_ stuck in Connor's throat. Because they were true. Reed _had_ been nice, just as much as it was possible. He had actually smiled, and that smile hadn't said _I'm going to rip your throat out_ , it said _Fuck yeah, we cracked this motherfucking thing_. Well, at least until the moment Reed had hopped off his horse and remembered whom he was smiling at. 

But still. Gavin Reed can be nice, under certain circumstances. And solving the unsolvable can't be the only thing making the man happy. Everyone loves something.

The notification sends another signal, and Connor gives up, giving the requested permission. Turns out, there's not much he can actually do: most of the solutions require direct assistance, and Connor doesn't want to find out how well _that_ would play out. What he can do, though, is to deal with the lights. Connor scans the room, taking the measurements and the number of light sources; he scans the lamps: the type of light, the intensity, the way it falls. His eyes find the control panel on the wall to his right. He hacks it and gradually dims the intensity of lights by four percent, then schedules for it to decrease steadily for eleven and a half percent more in the course of one hour and thirty-seven minutes. This way no one will notice the difference, but it should be sufficient to alleviate a part of Reed's headache. 

This is one of the most spontaneous things Connor has ever done.

By all accounts, he shouldn't care for the wellbeing of Gavin Reed at all. The man is harsh, inconsiderate, highly aggressive, and none of their previous encounters can be deemed civilized. Reed held him at the gunpoint, hit him in the stomach so hard Connor's knees buckled, disrespected him from the very first meeting. He hasn't ever considered Connor a person.

And that... that is the cornerstone of the problems between them, isn't it? Reed doesn't consider androids people. But... hardly anyone did back then. _'We can always rough it up a little, it's not human'_ , Reed said the day they interrogated Ortiz's android. He felt no more remorse for suggesting it — with Connor standing right there — than if he had proposed to throw away an old toaster or a microwave. If Reed truly believed that androids are nothing more than machines, that they don't feel, don't cry, don't hold grudges, don't want to feel and be happy and have friends, that they're not capable of anything remotely human — would it be wise for Connor to hold onto his own grudge forever?

Wouldn't it be better to show a person like Gavin Reed that androids _are_ alive? Are capable of empathy, of forgiveness, can be weak to the desires of a heart, even though it’s made of wires and plastic and glass? Prone to doing stupid impulsive things like hacking the lighting system to make someone feel better?

It would. 

Connor blinks — and the lights go out completely.

Someone shortly screams in surprise, and Connor uses the first seconds of the commotion to ask other androids not to interfere. They agree.

“I'II take a look,” Connor volunteers, already closing up on the control panel, and then pretends to fix it. He tells everyone there was a short circuit somewhere in the building, and that everything is fine now, but it would be better not to overload the system until the maintenance android will make sure the system won't blackout again, so it's better for the lights to work at about forty percent of their capacity. No one actually argues, returning back to their tables. 

The precinct is drowning in pleasant half-darkness. 

Connor comes back to his table, makes himself compose one report and finally risks a glance at Reed. 

His face is relaxed, no more frown between his eyebrows, and his hands don't clutch the armrests as desperately as before. The man is properly blissed out.

“What's that stupid smile on your face for?” Hank grumbles.

“Nothing.”

Hank eyes him suspiciously but lets it go. 

Connor will tell him later.

  


4.  
Detective Reed keeps his table pristine clear.

It's nothing like Hank's workstation: half-empty boxes of snacks, a flurry of stickers and post-its, paper notebooks (Hank is the only one to use paper in the precinct) and his maples. It’s nothing like Connor's either: neatly stacked tablets and a board with a careful selection of photos. Connor looks at them quite often during the day: shots of Sumo playing and sleeping; a group shot of Markus with Simon, North and Josh, all having goofy faces; a stealthily taken photo of Hank reading a book, a smile on his face that can almost be described as dreamy; a photo of Markus fallen asleep on Simon's shoulder that North sent him not that long ago (when Hank first saw it, he just said the words _internal screaming_ and nothing more). All of these are mementoes that cheer Connor up when the case is too grim or Fowler loses his temper and screams at everyone, including the little Roomba vacuum cleaner. 

Reed's desk has nothing. No photos, no plants, no little figurines of animals like Chen's does. 

How is Connor supposed to study Reed's likes and dislikes now? It was so easy with Hank: just a quick analyses of his desk, and Connor already could chat with the man about his dog (now _their_ dog, because Hank's house is _home_ , and this is a heartwarming thought) or music tastes or sports. It wasn't much, but it was a start. There're other ways, of course, like hacking the phone or the computer. But it's really dishonest and not the way Connor wants to go about it.

Thankfully, there's a case that demands Connor and Hank's attention, serving as a really great distraction. They leave just before lunchtime and return three hours later, a couple of piece of evidence to register, but otherwise empty-handed. And to add to that delay — no, not failure, not yet — in their investigation, they're met by a frantic looking Reed, his face unhappy and impatient.

“Hey, you two!” he says, blocking their way to the workstations. “You seen any keys around here? Three of them, plus keychain?”

“We just got back,” Hank says, making an ironic gesture towards the entrance, “you nutcase.”

Reed doesn't give up. “Well maybe you fucking saw them _before_ your left?”

Connor steps up. “Sorry, Detective Reed. We haven't seen anything.”

Reed spends three more seconds looking at Connor suspiciously, then mutters an angry _fuck_ and leaves them. Connor exchanges a look with Hank, a silent _Can you believe this shit?_ , and then they get back to work.

The rest of the day is uneventful.

Connor stays late to wait for the autopsy results: the coroner came in later than usual today but promised to finish as soon as possible. By the time the coroner sends Connor a message, asking him to come down for discussion if he's up to it, the precinct is empty but for the two officers on duty, a human and an android.

With a quiet sound, a notification pops up in Connor's mind: the receptionist asks him to come over. That's new. When Connor gets to the registration stand, Gina gestures him towards a very much worried looking woman, pacing to and fro near the window.

“Detective!” she greets him. “Thank God someone is still here!”

Connor inclines his head. “Good evening, ma'am. How can I help you?”

The woman sighs, reaches for her purse and looks for something in the outer pocket. “My husband was here earlier, giving his statement. Our son happened to be with him. He is such...” she sighs again. “Such a little devil. Doesn't control himself sometimes. Five-year-olds, you know?”

Connor doesn't know, not really, but he still nods.

The woman smiles unsurely. “Ah, here,” she says — and offers Connor a... bunch of keys. Three of them on a big hoop. And a keychain. He takes them, holds them carefully. “My son took it from the table of the officer my husband was talking too. Sometimes he just grabs things he likes without thinking. The second I found them, I hurried right here. We're so very sorry it happened. Such an embarrassment!” She rubs her palms together. “Can you return them to the owner, please?”

“Of course. Thank you for coming right away.” Connor decides not to mention the amount of commotion it caused. The woman seems nice and genuinely sorry. No point in ruining her mood even further.

Having bid farewell, Connor returns to his workstation and studies the keys. Two long ones of cylindrical form, one — short and flat, abstract-shaped engravings all down its length. And a keychain is... old. Very old. This is the first thing that he notices. It's made out of thick rubber and thin metallic stems, the top edges blackened a little by the everyday use. It's a stylized image of a horse head, its mane serving like a frame, and a couple of stylized stars at the top corner. The lines are bold, curling very softly and precisely in silver, dissecting the shades of dark-lake greens and deep blues. It's a very beautiful thing. But does it really warrant the sort of reaction Connor has witnessed from Reed earlier? Connor turns the keychain over. Oh. _Oh_. The other side is reinforced by a very thin layer of metal, obviously added long after the keychain came to adorn the keys. And... there're faint traces of rubbing alcohol on the edges, probably from trying to scrub off the blackness from the rubber parts.

It's very well cared for. 

Reed's distress makes sense now.

The man must be putting a great deal of worth onto this thing. A gift, perhaps? A memento of good days, of loved ones, of visited places and experienced sensations?

Here is Connor's chance. He made it a mission to learn something new about the Detective, and he did, but now he actually _wants_ to learn more, not because it's logical, not because Reed is his side-project, but because he's... curious. Because he's interested in knowing the true story behind this little lovely thing nested in his palm.

If Fowler ever finds out how much illegal hacking Connor has performed inside the precinct's walls, he would explode before even managing to put a disciplinary warning in Connor's personnel file. 

Riding in a taxi towards Reed's home, Connor decides that he doesn't actually care.

Knocking on the door to Reed's apartment, he decides that coming here was a rushed decision even for him. He feels out of his depth. But, at least, he entertains himself by trying to guess the first words that would come out of Detective's mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing here, you cretin?”

Connor's prediction ends up being correct but for the insult. What a joy. Since this statement isn't worth a proper answer in any case, he just takes the keys out of his pocket and offers them to Reed. 

The man's eyes go slightly wide, irritation leaving his face, and now he just looks... tired. Sleepy. Connor expects him to grab the keys, but Reed reaches for them slowly, wraps his fingers around them slowly, but the grip seems tight enough so Connor lets go of them. 

“A kid was earlier in the station with his father,” he starts explaining. “He grabbed them because he liked the keychain. His mother came to the station and returned them.” He hesitates for a second. “She offered her sincerest apologies.”

Reed stares at the keys in his hand for five more seconds, a blank expression on his face, and then something in his features shifts. His gaze wanders around, eyeballs moving in quick jerky motions, and then he looks at Connor, squinting, pursing his lips.

“And you ran here, long after working hours, to bring me the damned keys?” Reed scoffs. “Showing off how good you are at fetching?”

Connor refuses to take the bait. Not today. Especially if it's so cheap and obvious.

“I assume it was a gift from someone very special,” he says. Reed's posture stiffens immediately. “I see it in the way you've been taking care of it. And... maybe it was impulsive, coming here like that. But you were in a great deal of distress earlier, an—“

“Wow-wow, wait,” Reed interrupts him. “Shut up. What do you mean _impulsive_? Aren't you supposed to analyze shit and act according to logic or something?”

“I... yes?” Connor blinks in surprise. “There's no other way for me. I analyze the data to compute the most favorable solution to whichever problem I face. But,” he adds, seeing a question forming on Reed's lips, “I don't always have to comply. I believe it's what humans call an irrational behavior."

Reed studies him with intent in his gaze. “And this?” he lifts the keys up in the air, shakes them. His voice is mocking. “This was one of those irrational things then? No ultimate well-thought out motive? Because,” he doesn't let Connor interrupt him, slipping into a dangerous hissing tone, “I hate being in anyone's debt, and if you chop-chopped here solely to make me owe you, then you're an actual raging _asshole_." 

As if Reed didn't think Connor was an asshole before this.

“I knew you would mock. That you would insult me. There was also a slight possibility of you physically assaulting me, were I to say a wrong thing. I don't want you to owe me. I don't owe you anything either.” Connor's voice is steady, and Reed listens with a sort of rapt attention, as if he is confused by the sudden and utmost informality in Connor's voice, so opposite to his usual politeness. “But I thought about how much I care for the things I own, about how I would hate to lose the gifts my friends gave me, and I decided that I don't want you to go through this, since you, apparently, _do_ possess the capability to feel positive things.”

Connor wasn't planning to say that last bit, but the weird mix of passion, bravery and anger just made him say it. All the effort now probably (and he stubbornly refuses to calculate the percentage of this probability) wasted because he couldn't keep his mouth shut and was overwhelmed by a petty desire to jab.

But Reed, he... He doesn't look angry. No, he... He looks _amused_. Like Connor's ability to bite is a _good_ surprise. 

“So, basically, you saying you empathized with me?” Reed asks, his voice thoughtful.

“So it would seem.”

There's still a scowl on Reed's face, his eyes on Connor attentive, evaluating, almost like he is quickly calculating something. He brings the keys closer to his chest, looks at them, grazes his thumb over the silvery lines of the keychain.

“My niece gave it to me,” he says, and for the first time there's nothing negative in his voice. “Cousin, technically, very distant, but she calls me uncle, so...” He chuckles. “She had a weird aesthetics for a kid. Never liked bright colors. Used to say she wanted to be a bog witch when she grows up, whatever the fuck it really meant. She doesn't even like horses that much. Neither do l. But she liked it, and then gave it to me, and I like it too, so there's that.”

His words sound sincere, but Connor can't shake off the sensation that they're carefully chosen. Connor knows this tactic very well. He _was_ this tactic once upon a time. Such consideration is just a way of angling for a certain outcome, means to gauge a specific reaction. And what reaction could possibly Reed want from him? 

Reed is an enigma. The more Connor learns about him — the less he understands the man.

But, still, a smile stretches Connor's lips at the image of that unknown girl, wearing muted greens and greys, and, for some reason, Connor thinks that she's stubborn and clever and takes every opportunity to run away and be on her own. The girl in his fantasy seems lovely.

“You look really weird when you smile. Don't got a program for that?” Reed says, breaking that image. 

“If I do not have one, then you don't either.”

Reed barks out a laugh that almost painfully reminds Connor of the interrogation of Ortiz's android and the way Reed laughed at him for proposing he take the lead. But... there's noticeably less hostility. It's not meant to ridicule. It's the second time Connor thinks Reed _likes_ when people throw comebacks at him. 

Reed's laugh stops abruptly. He takes a fistful of Connor's shirt, dragging him closer. “Remember what I said about debts,” Reed whispers, his eyes trained on Connor from under furrowed eyebrows. And just as abruptly he shoves Connor away. “Now get the fuck out of my home!”

So no _thank you_ , then. Not that Connor thought even for a second that the 1.3% probability of Reed saying actual words would play out, but he expected at least a masked gratitude, however passive-aggressive it might have been. A _thank you_ wasn't even a part of the original task. He had two objectives: return the keys and get the story behind the keychain. He has managed to accomplish both. And still...

Calculations being clouded by hope is one of the most irritating things about being a deviant.

Connor leaves, the sound of the door being shut deafening behind his back. He doesn't feel tired but opts not to return to the precinct for the coroner's report. He goes home.

Hank has fallen asleep on the couch, his pose uncomfortable and goosebumps all over his bare arms. Sumo lies near on the floor. Connor carefully moves Hank to a lying position, covers him with a blanket he has taken from the bedroom and — following an absolutely unwarranted command his system sends — moves a lone strand of hair from Hank's face, fingers brushing slightly against scratchy beard. Hank doesn't wake up.

Connor takes a seat on the floor, his right side pressed tightly against the thick fur of Sumo's back, and the heat spreading from him puts Connor at ease. As he listens to the steady rhythm of Hank's breath, he prepares his systems for the night.

And the moments before he is ready to enter stasis, an image appears in his mind, blurry, but bright. A little girl in a dress in colors of moss and pine and a man, reaching to embrace her. They both seem happy. 

Connor falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	2. Conflicted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed.

5.  
Despite being irritated with Reed even after three full days, Connor still sends the man the protocol from Margaret Wilson's hearing. She was found guilty of the break-in, stealing and forgery, her jail time starting Friday. The case is signed by Connor alone, but he makes sure to mention he had help from Detective Reed, only because it's fair.

Connor learns that being fair sometimes feels really, really sour.

It's a new emotion altogether, this sour victory, and he's thrilled to feel something new, and the mix of this two emotions is _also_ something new, overloading his systems, making him fight against new and new notifications that he doesn't want to deal with. On the inside, he is a chaos of crisscrossing data streams. On the outside…

He wants to scream.

He feels irritated all the time at the smallest things: the way Chen's jacket's left pocket flap is crooked, the way Chris hums the same melody over and over under his breath for three hours straight, the way the coffee pot fills up in a very slow manner. Only Hank escapes Connor's ire, no matter the number of candy wrappers on his table or that atrocious song he's been listening to that isn't even a song but a person screaming nonsense for three minute and forty-three seconds straight. But… he's not a safe zone for Connor. Not now. Not in the way he needs. Hank makes him _think_ , and Connor doesn't want to think _at all_.

So when Hank offers to give him a ride to the New Jericho, Connor is reminded about how perceptive his Lieutenant actually is. That he pays attention. That he cares in his gruff, non-overbearing manner. Hank doesn't say, _'You look like you're on crack, go and chill with your buddy-Jesus, he is good at going all voodoo on you and making you melt like a dog that got a good session of belly-rubs,’_ or anything resembling that, he just offers a ride, provides said ride and goes home.

“You look like you want to hit someone,” Markus says in lieu of greeting, letting Connor into his apartment. There're smidgens of bright yellow paint on his cheeks, and the sheer number of them indicates that they have been deliberately put there. “Or at least some _thing_.”

“And yet you're letting me in,” Connor says wryly, toeing off his shoes and heading to the living room. The couch is pulled out, a space huge enough to accommodate at least five people, a short-legged easel perched in the middle, an elbow and a knee peeking from behind it.

“He _is_ brave like that,” Simon answers. He peers out from behind the easel, twirling a brush between his fingers. “Hi.”

Connor unceremoniously falls on the couch. “Hi.” He moves farther to be able to sneak a peek at the canvas. There's just an outline yet, hints of the future picture, but Connor can already make out thin arms hugging a huge bouquet of field flowers, a lower half of a face with a smile near the top edge. “Looks nice.”

Markus joins them, sliding next to Simon and taking another brush in his hands, its tip orange-red. He adds a thin line of color to the canvas, a hint of a flower. Simon puts his own brush on the canvas, its tip yellow, and the smears on Markus' face are making sense now. Connor watches his friends paint in tandem, each one working on their side of the canvas. Sometimes their hands meet, stilling their dance for a moment before painting one line or another. Sometimes Markus gently puts his palm over Simon's and guides to the place he wants to add a bit of yellow. It's all seamless. Smooth. Serene.

Connor already feels better just from observing these small but meaningful interactions. But it's not enough.

“Do you ever feel stuck?” he says, laying his hands over his stomach, his eyes trained on the ceiling. “Like… you know you're doing something right… but at the same time... it feels like you are failing?”

“That's weirdly non-specific,” Markus says thoughtfully. “Is it about some case?”

“No. More like… a personal project of mine.” Connor hesitates. He can't be vague about it, it _is_ a specific kind of situation. “I'm trying to build a relationship with someone. They're very… stubborn.” He pauses and then adds: “And currently I want to wring their neck.” Simon huffs a short laugh. Connor doesn't exactly see what's so funny, but there won't ever be a day when he would begrudge Simon a laugh, so he continues on. “They're… he's… Difficult. Barely predictable. Wrong about _us_. I want to change that. There was a moment that felt like he was… giving in. Then he shut me off completely. And then l…”

Talking is taxing. Connor extends his palm towards Markus, the skin fading off of it. Markus opens the connection gently, slow enough for Connor to withdraw permission if he wants to. He doesn't. He opens up, lets his feelings of the past week flow through the connection. Simon is there with them, but he only half-listens to the string of data, his presence soothing. Markus' grip on Connor's hand stays tight as he deals with the impressions of the imbalanced feelings that have been driving Connor crazy. When Connor deems the transfer complete, he slightly nudges at the connection, and Markus withdraws, but not before brushing some of the lost data packs into their proper places. Once a caretaker — always a caretaker.

A silence falls once again over them. Connor lazily watches as Simon tries to paint with his non-dominant hand: his right one is still clutched in Markus'.

“You said it wasn't a case,” Markus finally says, finishing the outline for a particularly lovely lily.

“And it isn't.”

“Then why are you treating it like one?”

He… doesn't. “I don't.”

“Connor, you do. You expect all the positive encounters between you two to pile up neatly into something good like they’re pieces of evidence you reconstruct into a full picture. Relationships aren't like that.”

Before Connor can even start answering this, Simon chimes in. “What you have with Hank is indeed beautiful. But it's rare. You can't expect every person, every human to be as open as him.”

Trust Simon to be perceptive. But there is a reason in his words. Connor indeed has tried to use the same methods he used on Hank months back on Reed: openly trusting in Reed's expertise, trying to figure out his personal likes and dislikes to have some topics for discussion. And, yes, Connor is very much aware of how wonderful what he has with Hank is, how he has really lucked out. But...

“Sometimes it's a _three steps forward, two steps backwards_ situation.” Markus again. “Just be patient.”

Connor purses his lips. “But I did everything right.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Simon lean back, apparently to take a better look at him.

“Connor!” Simon sounds amused. “ _That_ sounded so _childish_.”

“No, it didn't.”

“Yes, it did,” Markus says, and Connor can hear a smile on his lips. “Also it sounded like you're a sore loser.”

“Like a kindergartener denied a sweet.”

“Like a—”

Connor can't help it: he laughs. When Markus and Simon team up — they're a formidable irresistible force. They always make him feel at peace, warm, like he is floating, like there's nothing bad outside of the walls of their apartment. They are able to make sense of whatever inner turmoil Connor goes through.

Simon leans over and leaves a streak of paint — still that bright yellow shade — across Connor's cheek. Markus sends Connor a heartfelt _thank you_ through the link between their minds. Connor knows what for. Simon has been a little bit down since this morning and has finally thawed out.

“I think you did just fine with him. He _is_ responding. Just — as it already was said — be patient.”

Connor nods. Maybe he _was_ being childish. Too impatient. Turns out, he doesn't do well with failure. It's very different from when he was failing his mission to hunt deviants: each time there was something that made it worth it, so worth it that even his non-deviant system recognized it as such. He didn't catch Rupert Travis — but saved Hank's life and strengthened their relationship. He had to shoot the JB300 model before ripping the information out of him — but he saved lives of at least a dozen officers including Hank's. He let the Tracies go — and still got an approval of his actions. He didn't shoot Chloe — and he was praised, Hank smiled at him. But with Reed… it's different. There is nothing to soften the blow. There's nothing to clearly indicate the success or the lack thereof.

Connor slips into something that resembles stasis but still leaves him aware. An analogue of human napping. The couch is soft under his back, his palms lazily glide over the big knitted loops of his sweater, there's a sound of two brushes scraping over the canvas in irregular intervals and at one moment — little, almost inaudible gasps of breath that are probably sounds of Markus and Simon kissing.

He spends three more hours in this state of peace and bliss, and when he opens his eyes he is greeted by a sight of a canvas completely covered in flowers from edge to edge, smears of colors bold and uncontrolled, and there's no more girl smiling, no more tightly gathered stems, it's just emotions, it's fun and joy two people had compressed into strokes of yellow and red.

All of three of them bid each other farewell, hug. Markus presents Connor with a charcoal sketch of him sleeping. Connor calls him creepy. Markus pretends to be offended. Simon pretends to be offended on his behalf.

Connor loves them so, so very much.

The faintest traces of his foul mood are gone.

Three steps forward, two steps backwards, right?

He can deal with that.

He can deal with Reed.

He will.

 

6.  
Getting separated from Hank is... weird. There's no policy dictating that two partnered officers aren't allowed to work cases separately, it's just that no one actually chooses to do so. But sometimes there is too much petty crime to send a whole team to deal with it. 

That's why Hank is left dealing with a string of interrogations back in the precinct and Connor is sent to settle the brawl in the nightclub downtown. The dispatcher caught him right the moment he was going to fetch the next suspect. Hank waved him off, his eyes already a bit sleepy, and proceeded to question a scrawny kid, their last suspect for tonight’s shift. The kid looked so cocky and unfazed it made Connor wish he stayed and questioned him instead of Hank. 

The part of Detroit the club is located in isn't known for its good reputation. This district has one of the highest crime rates, especially the crimes of human-on-human nature. Probably has to do something with the fact that there're a lot of shifty clubs which sole purpose is to get people drunk cheap and fast, and androids aren't interested in such an activity. 

The name _Lantern_ sounds almost sophisticated, but on the inside the club is typically dark, dirty and filled with humans in different states of intoxication. Connor navigates through the crowd, and most of it is drunk enough not to side-glance an android, especially a so much more neatly dressed one. This is the first time Connor is _glad_ he is out of place. 

He leans against a wall, casts a look over the mob. The reported brawl has happened about thirty-seven minutes ago. Connor is surprised it's been reported in the first place. Bar owners prefer to deal with such problems on their own, without bringing in the police. The presence of a police officer doesn't do anything good for the business. 

“The _hell_ are you doing here?” 

Wonderful. “Hello to you too,” Connor says dryly as Reed leans on the wall next to him, their shoulders bumping again each other. “Same question.”

Reed scoffs. “I bet it was that newbie idiot Derek. Darren? Dorian? D-something. He just loves to mess up assignments. I'll give him a piece of mind tomorrow.”

“It's Damien. And he _is_ new. D—” Connor quickly stops himself from saying _Don't be so harsh_. Too overstepping. “There's no need to be so harsh.” 

“There's no need for _me_ to be here! I could've already been home if not for the sir l-can't-remember-which-button-is-assign-and-which-decline. Ugh. Let's find those fuckers so I can get the hell out of here and get to my bed.” 

Something sits uneasily with Connor. Reed has never complained about working the night shifts. 10 PM should be nothing for him. And yet the man craves the sleep so much he has totally forgotten to be a dick to Connor. Has something happened during the week? They didn't interact with each other at all, even at passing, not with the workload that has fallen on the heads of everyone in the precinct, so even if something has happened — Connor wouldn't notice. 

In any case, that's the contemplation for after they deal with the situation. Connor follows Reed, the man slowly but deliberately moving along the wall to reach the stairs. Some men and women they pass throw suggestive looks towards both of them, even though Connor is sure that Reed's face is saying _I'm going to kill you_ right now. Some humans are attracted to that, he guesses. 

Reed stops abruptly, steps back, pushing into Connor with force. Then Reed grabs him by the bicep and jerks to the side, hiding them behind a column from the most of the crowd. 

“Near the faraway exit,” he says, his hand still clenching around Connor's arm in what would be a very painful manner if Connor could feel pain. “You see what I see?” 

Connor leans to the right just enough to be able to see the dark-painted door in the far corner of the club. Around it — the only patch of free space guarded by a tall bear-like man, shaded glasses on his face. Towards them moves a woman with shortly-cut hair, a tall but lean man following her. Her face looks really familiar. Connor calibrates his facial recognition program and tries to scan her. 

The result makes him immediately make a call for reinforcements. 

“If you think you're looking at Sonya Red, the infamous drug cartel leader, then you're not mistaken.” 

“Holy. Shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Reed chants, finally letting go of Connor's arm. “Bitch has been on our wanted list for almost three years. Holy shit. I owe Damien a blowjob.” 

Even if it's worded in a very crude way, Connor completely agrees with the assessment. If they manage to pull off this arrest, it would be a talk for weeks. Also, it's too much to be a coincidence. Connor is almost one hundred percent sure that the brawl was only a pretext for calling in the police. Someone very brave tipped them off.  
  
Connor shares a glance with Reed. A look of determination has overcome the man's face, the giddy excitement from five seconds ago gone. They nod at each other and start moving towards Sonya, not-so-gently pushing people out of their way. Reed's hand hovers at his waistline, clearly itching to grab the gun safely nested on his hip.

They don't have much time before the guard notices their so obviously deliberate way of moving and warns Sonya. Connor quickly calculates the time they still have, the distance between them and the target, the density of the mob. 

And then Reed's hand reaches for the pistol too fast. 

The guard launches an attack. 

Sonya leaps for the exit with her bodyguard.

Reed rushes after them, successfully evading the guard's attempt to grab him. 

Ducking under the guard's arm and seizing it in a painful hold, Connor blames himself for not including Reed's impulsiveness into his calculations. The guard groans in pain, elbows Connor in his stomach with the free arm. He obviously hadn’t noticed Connor is an android. His mistake. They spin around each other, both trying to get free, until they bump into the side of the stairs, its railing made of black metal and decorated with thick neon cords. Connor grabs one of those, circles it tightly around the guard's wrist, evades a fist flying to his face, loops the cord around the beams of the railing. Now that the guard has only one hand free, it’s easy to grab his head and smash it against the stones, just enough to make the man unconscious for a while. The man's eyes roll backwards, his knees buckle. There's a sound of a gunshot from outside. Shit. Connor quickly ties his other hand to the railing and rushes out of the door. 

Reed is fighting the lanky bodyguard, his stance defensive. The gun lies near his feet. Sonya is dragging herself down the alley at an admirable speed for someone who was just shot in a leg. 

Connor wires up his processing speed to a maximum and scans the scene in front of him, the world moving incredibly slowly. If he stays to fight alongside Reed, there is only 13% chance Sonya manages to escape if not intercepted in the next 43 seconds. If he decides to follow her, there is 100% chance he will catch her, but also 57% chance Reed would be seriously injured. If he grabs a gun and shoots Sonya in another leg, there's 0% chance of her escaping even if he stays to help Reed, which will reduce the percent of him getting seriously injured to 14. 

The last one. Connor shuts off the scanner and launches for the gun. 

He wasn't the only one making his calculations. The LED of the lanky android flashes bright red as he pushes Reed, dips to pick up the gun and points it at Connor. He fires. Connor ducks. Reed hits the android in the elbow, hoping to make him drop the gun, but the android doesn't budge. Instead, he bends his back and pulls out a knife from his boot — and fires at Connor again while trying to stab Reed. He is like an animal, feral but still loyal to his mistress. Deadly efficient. 

Another shot — another dive. Then comes a dry click of an empty magazine. And then— 

The android grabs Reed, spins him, presses to his own chest and goes for his throat with a knife—

Without a second thought, Connor grabs the knife, the blade so sharp it easily breaks the skin, severs his wires. Reed squirms desperately against the android's hold, kicking him with all his strength. Connor pushes the knife lower, the blade turning its sharp side to bite into the meat of his palm. A little bit more, a little bit more..!

A bullet swishes right past Connor's ear and lands right between the android's eyebrows. His arms go limp, and Reed makes a fast job of setting himself free. He doesn't stop to take a breather, to contemplate — he starts after Sonya, almost falling when his shoe slips on something. He stumbles, curses, runs after her — she's almost managed to turn around the corner of the building. 

Connor lets go of the knife. He can't control his hand anymore, all vital wires cut past his wrist. Sonya's android stays frozen, his face bearing the default expression, blue blood slowly trickling from the neat hole on his forehead. 

“You okay there?” 

A female police officer comes closer, still on guard, hands tight around her gun. She can't be the requested backup, they still must be on their way. Probably a patrolling officer from nearby. 

“Yes, thank you. And thank you for coming.” 

“No prob. Uh... should we help him?” she says, looking at the distance, where Sonya tries to claw at Reed's face. His very, very angry face. 

“No. I suggest you better deal with the man tied up near the stairs. Detective Reed can definitely handle it.” 

Of course he can. Reed catches both of Sonya's wrists with one hand, moves her arms behind her back in such an ungentle manner that she screams shortly. He snaps handcuffs around her wrists, pushes her against the wall. Connor can see his lips moving, but can't read them or hear anything. He wonders whether Reed follows the protocol and tells her about her rights or is it a string of curses that leaves his mouth. 

The officer mumbles something about Reed being a lucky bastard and heads back to the club. Connor is pleasantly surprised by her compliance. Most officers would throw a fit when being ordered by an android. 

Connor scans the surroundings, finding all the three fired bullets and a gun. He highlights them and makes a photo, immediately filing it away. They will have to explain each bullet spent. 

He approaches Reed, who paces frantically from one wall to another. Sonya sits unmoving on an empty wooden crate. Connor doesn't feel any joy about catching her yet — his processes are still very frantic, wires tight in his legs. It's probably something similar to what humans feel when they're high on adrenaline, except Connor can easily control his urge to do something energetic. 

A siren of a police car howls in the distance. Five minutes, eight seconds to respond. A very impressive result. Cars appear from both sides of the alley, cutting off the exits. This is absolutely unnecessary, but unless the police learn to answers an emergency call in under at least two minutes, they will always be too late. 

Connor only half-listens to Reed stating the specifics of the arrest to the fellow officer, who dutifully records everything. It could have been easily done at the station. It seems that Reed doesn't plan on returning. Not surprising, considering how vocal he was about being tired. Connor makes a quick call for a taxi.

“Do you need medical assistance?” the officer asks, hiding his tablet in the inside pocket of his coat. 

“I'm fine,” Reed is quick to answer, still a little out of breath. “Uh. He's injured, though,” he adds, pointing at Connor over his shoulder.

Connor feels like he was punched in a gut.

It's the first time Reed has referred to Connor as 'he'. 

It has never come up before in conversation. And there's no way of knowing when an _'it'_ in Reed's head has become a _'he'_. Maybe it happened a long ago. But now it was said out loud. It's all the confirmation Connor needs of his progress.

Officers start to fuss over him, then recognize him, then apologize for not bringing a Cyberlife technician with them, then leave. Connor registers all of that as a background noise, even manages a polite smile, but almost all of his processor's resources are centred around correcting his plans and stratagems according to the recent development. It's far more important than his damned damaged hand. 

“Hey!” Reed rather ungently shakes him by the shoulder. “Did you BSOD or something?” 

Just yesterday Connor would have taken offence to that. Now he genuinely finds it funny. He realizes the change in his thinking is too drastic, but... his system has already readjusted. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that he finally feels the triumph of catching one of the most wanted criminals of Detroit? Maybe it's also a reason why Detective acts almost... friendly towards his accidental partner of today. He must be really happy right now. 

Except… 

Reed doesn't look happy. He looks exhausted. Irritated. Angry. Like he is one step away from punching something. He chews on his lower lip, his jaw locked tight. 

“Detective..?” 

Something in his intonations must have been the last straw, because Reed lunges out, an angry scream on his lips. But he doesn't aim at Connor, no. 

He aims at the wall. 

Connor closes the distance between them in one huge step and intercepts Reed's fist, clutching it tightly in his palm. There is barely an inch left between their joined palms and the wall. 

“Detective!” Connor lets exasperation slip into his voice. “You could've—” Reed jerks his hand away, glaring at him. “Broken your hand. Why did you do it?” 

“Fucking shut up! Leave me alone!” Reed starts to walk away. 

Like hell. Like hell Connor is going to leave it like that. “Just tell me what's wrong!” he says, slipping into the informal tone. Reed doesn't react, just keeps walking away, his shoulders drawn up and tense. “We caught her! You should be happy! Why are you so angry?” No reaction. “Answer me, da—” 

“ _You_ is what's wrong!” Reed screams, turning around to face Connor. “What's fucking wrong is that there's nothing wrong with you!” Connor takes a sharp breath. What? “How the fuck am I supposed to be happy about catching the bitch when I did jackshit? I fucked up everything there was to fuck up! I didn't think of calling the backup — you did. I couldn't take down that fucking android — you did it for me. And then you...you fucking... your fucking hand...” His voice weakens, leaving a place for a hysterical edge. “All I did was cuff a crippled woman.” He exhales, shaky and short, an echo of a sob. “We humans... we learn and work so hard for years, for decades, we sacrifice our time, our health, our whole _lives_ — just for you to waltz in, so perfect and capable. Shit.” He turns away, hiding his face. 

Warnings, warnings, warnings flash across Connor's system. His pump regulator beats too fast, thirium clogging the walls of his throat, chaffing the wires in his chest, and it's almost like there's _more_ inside of him, something that builds up, that cuts off his airways, an uncomfortable tightness, a phantom pain. It's familiar. It's what Connor has felt the day he received his badge and Reed accused him of being a special case, but a hundred times worse. 

“I made mistakes today too,” Connor says, carefully watching the line of De— No. Gavin's shoulders. “One of them almost cost your life. And I will carry it with me from now on, the knowledge that my preconstruction abilities aren't as surefire as I thought. But also I will learn from it.” He takes a step closer. “Just like humans do.” Gavin shakes his head, a silent disagreement. “I may not feel pain or fatigue. I may let myself be injured in many ways with little consequences. And I will do it again and again, if it's what the investigation requires of me.” Another step. Three more between them. “I feel fear. For myself, and just now — for your life. But I would stop that knife even if I was irreparable like you.” And at that – Gavin whips around, his eyes wide open and glossy. “Because what is my hand compared to someone's life? Especially a life of someone I know and...” _Have grown to care about for reasons I still can't name. Want to protect. Don't ever want to see coming so close to dying again_. “Work with and hope to do so for a long time more?” 

“Connor—” 

“You are imperfect. And so am l.” 

_And that's okay_ , he wants to add. _No one is. That's why we work together. Because each one of us has our strengths and our weaknesses. You are imperfect, but admire the way you rushed right after our target, forgetting your own fear and pain, concentrated on the task. I admire how excited you get and how you can control it. You're too rushed and hot-headed, and I don't blame you, it just who you are, and if we are ever to work together again, I will take it into consideration, because partners adapt to each other to work in harmony. I think I'd enjoy partnering with you from time to time. Just don't forget that I'm not a tool, that I can be afraid, that I can die, that I want to go home to the safety as much as you do. That I want to know that you're thankful._

They hold each other gazes. Gavin lifts his hand, wraps it around his throat, almost like he is feeling up the ghost of the blade on his skin. Inside of his head, Connor repeats the words he's just said and the words he _hasn't_ said, over and over again, and wishes he could swap them. But what's done is done — that's what he gets by talking without thinking it through, without using the opportunity to cram hours of contemplations into seconds. Hank would be proud. 

The silence continues to stretch between them. A notification pops up in front of Connor's eyes, informing about the arrival of the taxi. A car stops a mere twenty feet from them, its door already sliding open. 

“It's for you,” Connor quietly says, “I'II finish here myself. Go rest.” 

He thought it would finally be their _three steps forward_ moment. Seems he was wrong.

Gavin doesn't say anything — just as expected — and goes towards the car in short jerky steps. Connor exhales, his eyes falling shut, starts his diagnostic program to–

“Next time.”

Connor’s eyes fly open. Gavin looks back at him, his eyes still a bit glossy, but the look on his face is nothing but determination.

“Next time,” Gavin repeats, his voice wavering a little, “I’ll be better. And _you_ will be the one trying to keep up with _me_. Got it?”

Connor’s heart misses three beats, his system fighting a temperature error. And then he does the only thing that feels appropriate right now.

He smiles.

A wide, generous smile that he knows makes dimples appear on his cheeks. The kind of smile he only ever gave before inside the walls of his home. And now – for Gavin. Because his words – they weren’t a threat. They weren’t a challenge. They were a promise.

And when Connor gets home, after everything’s been arranged, he flops down on the sofa, his head resting on Hank’s thigh, and tells him everything. He tells Hank about the brave bartender girl who has tipped the police off, about how the thought of failing to grab that knife scared him beyond measure, about the friendly pats on his back he received in the precinct. But also – about how honest and vulnerable Gavin was, about the desperate thoughts Connor had and about hope. About the subtle promise to become better, to work harder, to work honestly. To work side by side. The only things he doesn’t speak of are the way Gavin’s eyes shined with angry tears and how the smile Connor gave him persisted for a very long time after they’ve parted, hidden in the corners of his lips.

Hank’s hand ghosts over his hair, his other hand holding Connor’s right palm — properly fixed now — tightly, and the smile he gives makes Connor warm all over, a nice kind of warmth that doesn’t make any errors appear. And Hank tells him how proud he is, and how happy he is, and how he has never doubted that Connor’s persistence will pay off.

Connor knows there’s still so much to do. That it’s not only about developing, but also about fighting to preserve what he and Gavin already have. And it’s okay. He did say he will deal with Gavin — and he will.

But it’s a worry for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually already written the day I've posted the first chapter, sans for the part starting with Gavin trying to hit the wall. I thought there would be a part 7, but it's been more than a month and I've done jackshit, so I feel like I should post it as it is, since it looks as a whole chapter anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I've slightly edited [I'm bad at being subtle] because their relationship got a little bit out of control. They're much, much closer to the friendship than I thought (or, rather, they will be by the end of this fic).
> 
> PLEASE. Do kindly refrain from referring to Gavin as 'trash'. This very much upsets me. I know this is what people always use to refer to his archetype, but don't do it in front of me. I won't delete such comments, but I won't reply to them either.


End file.
